


astronomy in reverse

by vannes



Series: Kindergarten Teacher Laurent [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auguste is still dead sorry, Damen is a Lawyer, Laurent And Damen Have Soft Sex And Everything Is Fine, Laurent is a Kindergarten Teacher, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/pseuds/vannes
Summary: “Ah,” he begins delicately. Laurent narrows his eyes and straightens himself, ignoring Hamlet’s distressed whimpers at the loss of Laurent’s fingers in his fur. Damen knows the feeling, a little too well. “What are you—wearing?”“It was pajama day,” Laurent says, and at his tone one might be tempted to think he was reciting Shakespeare, or something else of wild importance. He glowers at Damen’s repressed laugh, and hangs his bag on the hook on the wall, next to Damen’s own, half-empty briefcase. “And Vannes thought it would be a good idea to do arts and crafts, because no one would be wearing expensive clothing.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurxnts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/gifts).



When Laurent walks into the apartment, messenger bag slung over one shoulder as usual, Damen has to put down his mug to stop himself from dropping it.

“Don’t ask,” is the first thing Laurent says, and Damen closes his mouth with an audible _click._ The second thing Laurent says is a whispered greeting to their golden retriever Hamlet, who has bounded over to the door on his absurdly large puppy paws, and is currently attempting to claw his way into Laurent’s arms, despite being almost eighty pounds of pure, good-natured fluff. Damen watches, hopelessly fighting the smile that threatens to overtake his face despite his exhaustion. Laurent looks up at him from the foyer, makes eye contact, and smiles back.

Laurent is twenty-five and beautiful; even more beautiful than he had been when Damen had met him, as a harried university student struggling to keep his head above water. He looks older now, more refined. Something about the arch of his cheekbones, down to the soft bow of his lips. His hair is longer too, cut a little less severely now that his curls are more prominent. Currently, though, those mussed curls are wildly out of place, and streaked with the brightest blue Damen has ever seen. It’s painting the curve of his jaw, too, and slashed above one of his eyebrows, and combined with the loose sweatshirt and dark gray sweats Laurent is wearing, it makes him the most disheveled sight Damen has seen in a long time—and he works in a law firm, surrounded by dozens of interns on the daily.

“Ah,” he begins delicately. Laurent narrows his eyes and straightens himself, ignoring Hamlet’s distressed whimpers at the loss of Laurent’s fingers in his fur. Damen knows the feeling, a little too well. “What are you—wearing?”

“It was pajama day,” Laurent says, and at his tone one might be tempted to think he was reciting Shakespeare, or something else of wild importance. He glowers at Damen’s repressed laugh, and hangs his bag on the hook on the wall, next to Damen’s own, half-empty briefcase. “And Vannes thought it would be a good idea to do arts and crafts, because no one would be wearing expensive clothing.”

He sends a pointed glance at Damen, then looks down at the blue-streaked sleeves of his sweatshirt, and it’s only then that Damen realizes— “Is that mine?”

“Maybe.” Laurent has moved from the foyer into the open dining room, where Damen is sat at the kitchen table surrounded by paperwork and legal binders. He rests his elbows on the back of Damen’s chair and leans over to press a gentle kiss to Damen’s temple, his thumb brushing over the tense line of one of Damen’s shoulders. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I _liked_ that sweatshirt,” Damen says, petulant, but leans back to let Laurent kiss him fully anyway, catching his lips in a brief moment of intimacy. Laurent’s fingers clench in Damen’s rumpled button-down, so briefly he almost misses it. Ah, Damen thinks, and makes himself pull away from Laurent’s too-tempting lips. “Have you eaten?”

“You clearly haven’t,” Laurent points out, his arms sliding across Damen’s chest, the heavy weight of his chin settling on top of Damen’s head. There’s a slight pause, and then Laurent speaks again. “Are you drinking _coffee?”_

“What?” Damen asks defensively. He can almost feel Laurent’s frown, even if he can’t see it.

“It’s five in the evening. Are you planning on sleeping at all tonight?” Another pause, and Laurent sighs. “At least let me order some food before you finish that, so you don’t go out of your mind.”

“You aren’t going to cook for me, oh great craftsman?” Damen teases, his fingers grazing over Laurent’s wrist. Laurent laughs and pulls away, affecting distaste.

“I spent the day making pasta out of Play-Doh with five year olds, Damianos. I think I might rather die than try and cook anything right now.”

“Ouch. How many of them tried to eat it?” Laurent steps over to the cabinet where they keep the (too numerous) takeout menus and covers his face with one hand.

“Too many—my only saving grace is that it’s non-toxic. I think Vannes would just let them eat all of it, if it were up to her. She claims that it’s a ‘learning experience.’” Damen thinks about interjecting his preference for dinner, but he quiets when he sees Laurent effortlessly pluck out the Thai menu, their favorite dishes circled in years-old red sharpie. “I hate to think what would happen if someone left her alone with them.”

Laurent’s student teacher this year has been somewhat of an interesting experience. Damen has only met her twice—they’d had her over for dinner once before the year had started, and Damen had picked Laurent up from work once to find him trapped in a conversation with her about the negative effects of heteronormativity in children’s fashion. She’s working on a minor in gender and sexuality studies, and Damen sometimes finds himself inadvertently intimidated when Laurent brings her up in conversation; he’s not quite sure why.

“I’m sure you’ll keep her in line.” Damen quiets when Laurent starts dialing the phone, holding it up to his ear after gently brushing his blue-streaked hair away from his face. He watches Laurent’s lips form the words of their order, watches the soft brush of his lashes against his cheeks; Laurent’s effortless beauty never stops astonishing him. Laurent hangs up and replaces the menu, and sits briefly in one of the chairs opposite Damen, Hamlet’s fluffy head settling on one of his knees almost immediately.

“Has Damen fed you yet?” Laurent asks in a slightly pitched voice that makes Hamlet cock his head to one side, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Laurent laughs and gives his face a brief rub, laughing again in surprise when Hamlet tries to leap up and lick his face. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I’ll walk him later,” Damen offers as a concession, as Laurent digs out the dog food from yet another cabinet. Hamlet starts running in circles around the kitchen, and Damen has to put down his pen to grab him by the back of his collar before he works himself into an exhausted frenzy. “He clearly needs it.”

“Well, if you come back in at two A.M., don’t let him slobber on my face.” Damen winces, reminded of how well _that_ had gone, the last time.

“Of course,” he promises, readily. Laurent smiles at him, face softened by the smudges of paint and the happiness that has settled over him, and Damen feels himself melt, falling in love just a little bit more.

Dinner is quiet; they eat on the couch, far away from Damen’s casework, and Laurent rests his head on Damen’s shoulder and relaxes into Damen’s free fingers resting on the inside of his thigh. Damen’s quiet instrumental mix plays from the kitchen, and instead of turning it off from his phone Damen lets it play, settling into the comfortable silence broken only by the occasional jangling of Hamlet’s dog tags.

It had taken Damen a little while to get used to Laurent’s silences, once they had started living together. By nature Damen likes background noise; the chatter of the television, or the news playing from the old, beaten-up radio he’d salvaged from his dad’s collection of old technology. Laurent, however, prefers silence. It eases the tension out of him, for whatever reason, and lends itself to concentration. They’d had to compromise on a lot of things, after renting their first apartment together, but by now those compromises have turned into second nature. Now when Laurent is home, Damen switches to classical music or turns off the radio altogether, and when Laurent is sleeping and Damen up late to work on a case, he plugs in his headphones and lets the mundane political chatter fade into the background.

Laurent’s small quirks have become almost familiar by now; they’ve lived together for years, and yet Damen still finds himself delightfully pleased when Laurent kisses his cheek before one of them leaves, when Laurent slips off his shoes the moment he steps through the doorway. Others are different; Laurent has a habit of leaning out of their apartment’s windows to try and clear his mind, and for the next hours afterwards Damen can find him checking the lock on the window he’d opened, again and again. Laurent’s soft, vaguely annoyed noises when Damen picks him up after falling asleep at the kitchen table have become intimately familiar, as well as the noises he makes while trapped in the throes of a nightmare. Damen knows that he hasn’t learned it all, but he never wants to stop learning things about Laurent.

After dinner, Laurent settles himself across the table from Damen, and clears himself a spot to grade a stack of assignments, covered in messy, five-year old handwriting. Damen settles back into the intricacies of his case for another hour, interrupted only by Laurent’s occasional small breath of laughter and Hamlet occasionally propping his head on Damen’s knee, begging for scratches.

“You should take him out,” Laurent finally says, setting his portion of construction-paper crafts aside and pushing himself out of his chair. “Clear your head a little.”

“Okay,” Damen agrees, and goes to push up his glasses, only to realize that they aren’t on his face. He casts his gaze around frantically, and Laurent leans over the table to nudge the frames across the table, a few inches away from Damen’s left hand. “You’re probably right.”

“When aren’t I?” Laurent asks, and artfully dodges away when Damen moves, laughingly, to pull him into a kiss. “Take Hamlet out first, then we’ll see.”

Damen heaves a long-suffering sigh, but gets up and clips Hamlet’s leash to his collar, the puppy sitting obediently still for the two seconds it takes, and then immediately attempting to fling himself into Damen’s arms. He takes the dog out to the park across the street, waits for him to do his business, and takes a long moment to breathe in the cool night air, letting the soft sounds of evening take his mind off of the too-heavy case he’d taken on. It’s not that he doesn’t love his job—he does, but sometimes, the crimes he has to research and argue about make his stomach turn.

He’d learned, very early on, that Laurent only wants to be included in Damen’s cases when Damen himself can’t bear it alone.

Soon enough, Hamlet has tired himself out just enough that Damen can tug him gently back home, and he walks into the apartment to find Laurent leaning slightly with one palm flat against the kitchen counter, the kettle boiling in front of him, tapping away on his phone. He doesn’t look behind him when Damen enters, so he takes the opportunity to approach Laurent slowly, sliding his arms around Laurent’s waist and relishing the pleased hum that comes as Laurent settles himself back against Damen’s chest.

“How was your _—ah—”_ Laurent cuts himself off with a gasp when Damen presses the first, gentle kiss to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. Damen resists the urge to smile and kisses him again, an inch higher, and braces himself as Laurent lets more of his weight sag against Damen’s chest. _“Damen—_ really, we’re in the kitchen—”

“And?” Damen mumbles against the smooth skin at the juncture of Laurent’s jaw, peppering small kisses across his cheekbone until Laurent turns his head and gives Damen what he really wants: a slow, lingering kiss that has Laurent practically shaking in his arms.

Even after all these years, Laurent is still as sensitive as he had been the first time they had made love.

Damen’s fingers find the hem of Laurent’s sweater, and push it up to expose a sliver of Laurent’s skin to the cool air. Laurent shivers, and Damen runs the pads of his fingers along the exposed skin, basking in the helpless noise Laurent makes against his lips. He doesn’t pull away, though, or make any indication that he truly wants Damen to stop, so Damen lets his fingers stroke over the same spot, again, until Laurent breaks away with a gasp, his fingers clenching on the counter.

“Damen,” he says, breath stolen from his lungs. Damen hums in response, his fingers stroking over bare skin, basking in the tension unwinding from Laurent’s muscles. He presses his nose against the streak of blue paint on Laurent’s jaw, grins to himself when Laurent’s neck bows to the side, opening himself up. “You can—”

Damen hums again, considering, and traces half an inch closer to the waist of Laurent’s joggers, and lets his fingers dance back again. “Not yet.”

The frustrated noise Laurent makes in response is tinged with pleasure, so Damen starts kissing his neck again, slow and sweet until he finds the spot just above his collarbone that makes Laurent sag against him, surrendering his weight entirely to Damen and the counter as he leans his head back against Damen’s shoulder. Damen holds him up, arms braced around his waist as he finally lets his fingers trail lower, tracing the jut of Laurent’s hipbones, listening to his jagged breathing as Laurent lets himself surrender into the touch.

He knows that it might never be—easy, for Laurent. Every moment of intimacy comes more naturally than the last, but Damen knows that Laurent’s tendency to overthink sometimes crowds out his desire to give himself over to the things that Damen makes him feel. Yet the moments like this, where Laurent relaxes into the touch with barely a second thought, are what Damen strives for every time he touches Laurent; he loves feeling Laurent open himself up and allow himself to _feel,_ and Damen isn’t willing to disappoint him tonight.

When his fingers slide under the waist of Laurent’s joggers, sliding his hands back until his palms rest just above the curve of Laurent’s ass, Laurent laughs softly in Damen’s ear.

“Are you going to ravish me in the kitchen and then make me clean it up after?” The humor is evident; Damen sucks a tiny, barely-there mark just where he knows it will be hidden by the collar of Laurent’s shirt tomorrow, and lets his thumb trail over the dimple at the bottom of Laurent’s spine.

“I’ll clean it up,” he murmurs against Laurent’s skin, intoxicated by the feel of Laurent underneath him, against him.

“That wasn’t a _—ah—_ no to ravishing me,” Laurent points out, less steadily. Damen doesn’t respond; he’s too preoccupied with laving his tongue over the small red mark, his hands sweeping broadly up and down Laurent’s flank under the sweater, cataloguing every aborted thrust back against him that Laurent stifles, letting Damen touch to his heart’s content. His thumb strokes at Laurent’s waist, his hip, the place where his thigh curves into his body, and Laurent moans lowly, one of his hands sliding up to wrap itself around the back of Damen’s neck. He lets himself be pushed forward, kissing down Laurent’s neck and collarbone as he grinds lazily against him, half-hard in his own slacks.

“Maybe later,” Damen decides, and on his next slow pass down Laurent’s hip, Laurent makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat that makes Damen buck his hips involuntarily forward, sliding his arousal over the cleft of Laurent’s ass. Laurent is shaking against him, gasping every breath, ad Damen is absurdly pleased by the fact that he hasn’t even really _touched_ him yet.

He’s never gotten over the heady rush of pleasure that comes with each reminder of Laurent’s sensitivity, his receptiveness to touch and adoration.

“Damen—” Laurent warns, cutting himself off when Damen’s hands move forward, the heel of his palms pressing into the space between Laurent’s hipbones, down and down until he’s half an inch away from Laurent’s cock, straining against the thin material of his underwear. Damen tilts his head up, conscious of Laurent’s fingers curling into the strands of hair at the nape of his neck as he drags a finger up Laurent’s cock, through the fabric.

The noise Laurent makes into his mouth is obscene; his entire body shakes, overwhelmed by the simple pleasure of being _touched_. Damen swallows the moan, and drags his thumb over the head of Laurent’s cock, the fabric damp with precome. Laurent’s hips jerk, and Damen’s grip around his waist holds him steady, pressed between the kitchen counter and the line of Damen’s body. The fingers of Damen’s right hand are digging into Laurent’s hip, keeping him steady as he cups Laurent in his hand, savoring Laurent’s muffled pleasure, the clumsy movement of their mouths together, Laurent’s responses as helpless as the first time they had kissed, the first time Damen had brought him this kind of pleasure.

When he pushes Laurent’s pants down, exposing his cock to the cool air, Laurent pulls away with a sharp gasp, a blush rising high on his cheeks.

“We’re in the kitchen,” he manages, again, voice rough. His lips are swollen and slick, and Damen can’t decide whether he should look at the bow of Laurent’s mouth or the curve of his cock, arching up towards his abdomen, Damen’s fingers trailing delicately down the shaft.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” It’s true; they’ve done a lot worse in this kitchen, by now. Laurent shudders at the words, his eyes falling closed. The flush has spread from his cheeks to his neck, creeping down his chest and disappearing under the collar of his shirt, which rises and falls with every tremulous breath. For a moment Damen holds his breath, hands stilling, waiting for Laurent to let him in or push him away.

He’s rewarded, seconds later, with Laurent pressing a light kiss to his lips, settling back more firmly against Damen’s chest and letting his head drop back against Damen’s shoulder, exposing the long column of his neck for Damen to kiss, worshipful. Damen shifts, his clothed cock sliding where he wants it most, Laurent’s skin now exposed against him. His sweatshirt has rucked up to his chest, baring his stomach and hips for Damen to watch rapturously as he strokes Laurent slowly, teasing him with gentle kisses against his neck and teasing touches to his head, where he’s sensitive.

 _“Please,”_ Laurent gasps, his fingers curling in Damen’s hair, urging him to deepen his kisses to Laurent’s skin, sucking gentle marks where he knows they’ll be hidden. His thumb strokes against the ridge of Laurent’s cock and he shudders with his whole body, weight sagging into Damen slightly until he regains his balance, cock twitching in Damen’s hand. He repeats it, more urgently, and Damen slows his strokes, conscious of Laurent’s preferences and sensitivities.

It hardly takes long for Laurent to unravel; he had been close to the edge already, and all it takes is a few twisting strokes of Damen’s wrist to have him tensing, breaths jagged as he warns _—I’m going to—_ and Damen strokes him through it, rubs circles into his hip with his free hand, presses a lingering kiss to Laurent’s jaw as Laurent lets himself break down, fingers convulsing against Damen’s neck as he comes in hot spurts, coating Damen’s hand, his own abdomen, and Damen’s old, paint-stained sweatshirt.

Laurent’s breaths sound like sobs as he comes down, letting Damen stroke him through the orgasm until he hisses in oversensitivity, his head falling forward as he struggles to hold his own weight. Damen tightens his grip, holding Laurent close until the shaking subsides, his breaths evening out into something approaching normality. Damen reaches across the counter and grabs a washcloth, using it to wipe his own hand and Laurent’s abdomen, giving up on the sweatshirt before he even tries.

“What about you?” Laurent murmurs, after a moment. Damen nuzzles against his neck, hands resuming their slow mapping of Laurent’s torso, after tugging up his pants. Laurent’s voice is slow and pleasure-thick, his muscles releasing the built-up tension, easing into Damen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, considering.

“Maybe later.” He’s still hard in his slacks, straining against the confines of his zipper, but the immediate need to see Laurent sated and happy is no longer present, and Damen thinks that he’d rather wait until they both have the time to come apart together, unhurried, the way they both like. Laurent makes a vague noise in assent, and leans in for another kiss, turning finally so that their torsos are pressed together, Laurent pushing himself up onto his toes to meet Damen’s lips halfway between them.

It’s a long kiss; languid. Damen lets his eyes close as one hand slides into Laurent’s curls, stuck together in some places by paint, the other resting, constantly, on his waist. These are the moments he likes best between them; lazy and intimate, kissing so slowly that Damen almost forgets the pressing case and the research spread out across the kitchen table.

It’s nice, until they’re unfortunately and inevitably interrupted by the ancient landline, ringing obnoxiously from the other side of the kitchen. Laurent breaks away from the kiss to bury his face in Damen’s neck with a groan, making no movement to walk over and turn the damn thing off. It’s been tormenting them for years now, and yet neither of them have ever seemed to find the time to disconnect the thing, and cancel the number. Damen thinks, briefly, about answering it, and almost immediately discards the idea; the only people that ever call them on the landline are their landlords and really, he’s not in the mood.

The tone sounds, and Damen’s voice monotonously reading their voicemail, sending Hamlet—who had likely been asleep on their bed until he bowls clumsily into the kitchen—into a frenzy, barking at the telephone until Damen hushes him. The tone sounds again, and when the voice starts coming through on their machine, Laurent groans again, this time failing to suppress his laughter.

“Hey, Laurent, I’m just calling to remind you that you still haven’t sent me that jacket I left at your apartment back in, like, May. You really are useless, aren’t you?” Nicaise’s casual tone comes through the machine slightly staticky, but his dismissive tone echoes in Damen’s ears like he’s in the room with them. “I told you spending time with infants would melt your critical thinking capabilities.

“Anyway, California’s great. I haven’t seen any snow in four months, which is probably a record, and I haven’t seen your face in four months either, which is also great. I hope you’re not picking this up because you’re out, not because you’re busy fucking the beast you call a boyfriend. Send me my jacket. Bye.”

By the time the message ends, Laurent is shaking with helpless laughter against Damen’s chest, and Damen’s debating the relative merits of ripping the phone cord out of the wall so that Nicaise can never call it again.

“How did he even—” Damen starts, cut off by another peal of Laurent’s laughter. “How did he even _get_ that number?”

“I don’t know,” Laurent admits, out of breath. “You have to admit, he has an excellent sense of timing.”

Damen mumbles something vague about Nicaise and _timing_ , but shuts up about it when Laurent silences him with another kiss, shorter than the last. Nicaise has been at college for a few months now, earning a degree in art history on the other end of the country at UCLA. He’s entirely funded by Laurent’s family’s money, which Laurent had been too happy to give, and which had only been accepted after a long discussion with Nicaise about the exact expenses of a college degree. Damen’s glad that he’s happy, though, and even finds himself missing weekly dinners with the gremlin, every once in a while.

And then, of course, they get the phone calls, and Damen remembers exactly why it is that he doesn’t usually miss Nicaise too dearly.

“Hey,” Laurent murmurs, inches from his lips, and Damen’s attention is brought sharply back to the present. “I’ll put some water on for tea. You’re cut off on caffeine for the rest of the night.”

Damen knows better than to argue, as much as he wants to, but he draws Laurent in for one last kiss before releasing him into the kitchen, the air cool against his front after so long with Laurent pressed against him.

“You know,” he comments idly, as Laurent fills the kettle with water. “Your hair look nice in blue. Maybe you should think about dying it.”

He dodges the water-soaked rag Laurent throws at him, but only barely. It’s worth it, though, to hear Laurent laughing again.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr [here](http://jvstens.co.vu/) or twitter [here](http://twitter.com/verelesbian)


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